


Strictly Speaking, Not Quite Legal

by Praetor



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Awkward Q, Badass Relations, Bond is lurking, Bondlock is a go, Brothers, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Holmes Siblings, I have probably mangled the canon terribly, M/M, Q Branch? More like Nerd Branch, Q Holmes, Q doesn't know what to do with a crush, Q has questionable friendships, Q is a Holmes, Quillian Holmes, R is a BAMF by the way, Scary Family, Shoot me please :D
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Praetor/pseuds/Praetor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q doesn't handle feelings so well, but would maybe like to learn, R is secretly plotting something nefarious, Bond hears things he probably shouldn't, and the Holmes siblings are all very very scary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Q had never really been one for sentiment.

‘Caring is tearing your heart apart, Quillian, never forget that,’ his mother always quoted to him, a solemn look in her eyes.

It had been her influence, her’s and his sibling’s, and his uncle’s, which had sculpted him into the socially inept young man that he was today.

HIs mother had lightened up considerably from her graveness, of course, but by the time she had remarried and found true happiness for the first time in her life, it had been much too late for her children.

All five of them, already struggling with the chains of ingenuity and uniquity, further fell apart by their mother’s islationsist theory of raising youngsters.

None of them had been abused- not as most would categorize abuse, at least, but that did not mean that scars had not been left.

Unfortunately, the scars of their childhood had caused them to grow up into the most unfortunate type of people, with no real chances at normal lives.

The Holmes children, of course, would never _quite_ word it that way. They considered their lack of empathy a gift, and their differences from what they deemed ‘the Lessers’ to be a blessing… Except, of course, none of them were religious in the slightest, and all of them rejected things like _blessings…_

Still, deep down, underneath all of that apathy and disinterest, they were thankful in their own ways.

...All but for Quillian, that is. He was a bit of a black sheep for this very reason; while his siblings revelled in their ability to lock away all of their emotions and bury their feelings deep inside, Quillian was reluctant to do so, and, in fact, had somewhat of a _problem_ in that regard..

Mycroft was, by far, the best at it- he had locked his feelings up so deep inside his heart that Quillian actually wondered to himself if he had any. It wouldn’t surprise him if his brother didn’t, if he was only a hard shell, filled to the skin with thoughts alone. Mycroft’s ability to shut his emotions down came easily to him, and Quillian was _very_ jealous of this fact.

It would be easier not to feel- it would cut away so many problems that he had, and it would pave over so many bumps in the road. But it was harder for him, much harder. He could mask his emotions just fine- they all could- and he was certainly able to present an uncaring face to the world. However, the actual ‘not caring’ bit presented a few snags…

He was well aware that his siblings considered him weak for his inability to fully remove himself from a situation; they had made their position on the matter incredibly clear over the first 20 years of his life.

Quillian himself found that he agreed with them. He teetered on the edge of emotion, just far enough in the ‘yes, they’re there’ spectrum that he could be hurt by them, but not far enough that he could enjoy the pleasantries that emotions brought. Not yet, at least.

So Quillian lived his life, navigating the ups and downs with as much forced indifference as he could manage. He was rather unaware of the fact that he would soon crave emotions with the yearnings of an addicted man.


	2. H-Branch and Musings

There were certain times when Q was struck by just _how glad_ he was that he had deleted his old life and moved on to something better.

Now, he decided, fingers flying over his keyboard, eyes darting rapidly between four screens, was definitely one of those times.

“There’s a window coming up to your left,” Q said calmly. “Do you see it, 004?”

“Yes,” 004 shouted back, ducking just in time to avoid a bullet to the head. “Jump?”

“Jump.”

Q took the time to hit a few keys on his secondary keyboard as 004 barreled down the hallway, taking a few potshots behind her as she did so.

The newer of his minions flinched at the sound of glass smashing as 004 burst through the third story window in a wild blaze of glory.

They’d better get used to it, Q thought, watching as 004 splashed into the water rather ungracefully. This was Q-Branch, after all. Wild blazing glory did tend to be a common-place thing around here.

Q angled the private video cameras (hacked) towards the lake just outside the mark’s property, watching as 004 surfaced, sputtering up water. 

“Bloody hell, Q!” She coughed. “You could have told me it was going to be shallow over here!”

“I expected you to be aware of this fact,” Q returned. “You jumped into a lake right underneath a window- how deep did you expect it to be?”

“Damn you,” 004 growled, struggling out of her jacket as she tread water. “I think I sprained my ankle!”

A sudden shout drew both of their attention to the upper story window. A bloodstained face leaned out of the frame, and immediately spotted the female agent.

“She’s in the water!”

“You’ll have more than a sprained ankle to worry about if you don’t start swimming now,” the Quartermaster pointed out, and 004 swore profusely.

The woman, finally out of her cumbersome jacket, snagged her respirator from the pocket, snapped it over her head, and dove under the surface without another word.

A rain of bullets fell down upon her not a moment later, and Q found himself very glad that the female agent had been wearing a bulletproof vest underneath her clothing.

“You did well, Agent,” He spoke levelly into his earpiece, knowing that 004 could hear him perfectly well, though she had no ability to respond back. “See that you take the utmost care of the disk from here on out. I will be expecting it on my desk as soon as you get back. And though my communications devices are waterproof, they are not bulletproof. Please don’t get shot. Q out.”

And then he promptly disconnected, clicking off the overhead view with a single keystroke.

He smiled slightly, knowing that the double-oh agent was no doubt cursing him profusely in her mind for leaving her to her fate. But Q had trust in her capabilities, and his skills were no longer needed.

Agent Lim Mailu would be just fine, and he had other business to attend to.

“De Main!” He called out, making the minion in question look up from his desk.

“Yes sir?”

“Head down to to M’s office and tell him that 004 has the information and is en route to the safe house as we speak, if you will.”

“Of course, sir.”

De Main rose and left the room, and Q allowed himself to sink into his thoughts with an imperceptible sigh of relief.

It was very rare that he found himself guiding a double-oh on a mission- that job was left to the men and women over in H-Branch- but every once and a while an instance arose where his particular skill set was needed, and for the sake of the mission, he was forced to overlook things.

Such as the very recent mission with 004, for example. They had been closing in on Jacinto Armeri for some time now, and the agent’s infiltration of his home and subsequent data retrieval had been the pinnacle of their investigation. Of course, data retrieval wasn’t all that had gone down in the Armeri mansion. No, not in the long shot…

Mailu had gone into the mission with a simple compact disk, which, if anybody bothered to check, would seemingly contain nothing but maid Su Li’s yoga routine for the week. 

In actuality, the compact disk contained a very advanced computer program that would, when inserted into the mark’s computer hard-drive, scramble all outgoing distress signals and copy all information. It had been very hard for Q to design, seeing as how rich Mr. Armeri had some of the most advanced technology on the block. He had, of course, managed- the Quartermaster prided himself on his more than _adequate_ coding.

Though he was positive that the disk, when loaded, would work just as it should, there were still minute details that needed to be seen to, and though Q probably could have queued one of his more favoured Minions in to what needed to be done, he preferred to see to the instructions himself- it was easier and quicker, in any case.

So Agent Mailu had finally made use of her long developed cover, going about her daily routine, though this time with the Quartermaster’s voice hanging in her ear like moss. Sneaking into Jacinto Armeri’s private office had taken some work, but the tools provided to her by Q-Branch had helped her along, and soon she was booting up his computers, unloading Q’s hard program, and sliding it into the disk drive. Q very carefully instructed her on what commands she needed to take charge of, and that had been that.

Until, of course, Armeri’s private guards had burst into the room, guns blazing and boots smashing. It was all very dramatic, really.

And, like most double-oh missions, this one had ended in shots fired, ridiculous explosions, and much much chaos.

Q counted it as a success.

Swallowing down his self-satisfied smile, the Quartermaster turned back to his central monitor and pulled up a blank document. He quickly lost himself in the mind-numbing process of typing up a report on his side of the mission. It was all fine and well to watch a person go through an intricate process of taking down a major criminal mastermind, but _writing_ about it was another bloody story…

The clacking of Q’s keyboard didn’t echo, but the sound seemed to draw companionship to him nonetheless.

_Click._

The techie was drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of his Scrabble mug being placed on the corner of his desk.

“Here,” R, said, pushing the mug toward him. “You ran out a while ago, and I thought that you might appreciate a full cup when you finished your task.”

Q took the cup with a smile, hiding the stretch of his lips behind the rim as he took a sip. 

“Many thanks,” He told his assistant, quiet appreciation clear in his voice.

R nodded to him. “It was no problem. That mission was a quite eventful- it would do you well to ride down the adrenaline high.”

Q snorted. “If anyone is going to have problems riding down the high, it’s going to be Mailu. I’m fine and dandy behind my desk with a nice cup of tea, but she’s out there swimming away from bullets. I almost feel like I’ve done some sort of injustice for disconnecting on her like that.”

“And yet you still did.”

“Yes,” Q agreed. “I still did.”

R smirked and settled herself down into the spare chair at Q’s desk. They sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes- Q returned to his report, and R watched his fingers dance.

“You know,” The woman said finally. “I think we are members of rather the best branch in MI6.”

Q dragged his eyes away from his screen and blinked at her, startled. “I- Yes… I do agree, R.”

She nodded in a curiously introspective way. “Yes, yes quite… We get to conduct many rather unsafe experiments, we receive a delightful amount of funding, and our Head of Branch is reasonably sane, despite our Branch’s madcap endeavors.”

“I’m… going to say thanks?” Q frowned at her, hiding his uncertainty by taking another sip of his rather agreeable tea. “Where is this going, exactly?”

R shrugged. “I’m just saying. With the amount of mania that goes on down here, we all expected you to… well, _snap,_ for a better word, and bring us down with you.” She sent him a sideways look, and continued nonchalantly. “Kind of like how H-Branch went out of control.”

“H-Branch is full of morally ambiguous handlers with violent streaks a mile-wide.” Q returned, tapping the side of his mug with his index finger, and squinting at his assistant. Her tone was fooling no one. “That much love for chaos can’t be healthy for the mind.”

“I am with you 100%,” R agreed amicably. “They’ve been damaged, they have. _Damaged.”_

By this point, Q was no longer even bothering to pretend to understand where this conversation was going.

“Okay...?”

“Okay. It’s just that their Head of Branch is really scary… His eyes rip apart your soul, you know.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, you do, don’t you? And you know the rumours that he carries around more guns than a double-oh, which is really saying something, isn’t it?”

_“...Quite.”_

R shrugged again and repeated, “I’m just saying.”

“I’m sure you are,” Q said doubtfully, lifting his mug to his lips.

They lapsed into silence again, though this time it was with filled with suspicion and faux indifference.

“So you definitely agree with me that H-Branch is really scary, right?”

Q sighed and set down his mug when R spoke not-so-innocently. “Alright, R. Why don’t you just tell me what you want, hmm? Because I _know_ you want something. You always _do_ this when you want something.”

His second in command paused and pursed her lips. “I have to go down to H to talk to one of the handlers,” she finally said, a sullen crease to her brow and a reluctant set to her jaw. “And I don’t want to be shot by an epinephrine pumped double-oh handler to die a sad death in a loud room, so you’re going to need to come with me for because it’s never good to venture out alone.”

Q sat back in his seat and _looked_ at her. 

...

“Well,” He said after a moment of silence. “Solo expeditions do often end in disaster, it’s quite true.”

R nodded grimly. “And after what happened last time, I feel as if I have double the reasons to not want to go down there on my own.”

“That was rather awful, wasn’t it?” Q asked rhetorically. “Really, it was just a friendly conversation- no reason for the violence that occurred…”

“It was indeed rather unfortunate,” She agreed. “Which is why I feel that your presence is necessary, so that we can avoid any further unwanted bloodshed.”

“Are you sure that my presence won’t simply _exacerbate_ things? H and I didn’t really _hit it off_ last time…”

“No,” R said. “You didn’t. But you are the Quartermaster, and that’s something that deserves respect- and no matter how much psychopathy H possesses, he does understand respect.”

“I don’t know, R… H-Branch is rather frightening- I’m not afraid to admit that…”

“Neither am I, which is why I would feel a lot more comfortable if you were to accompany down the labyrinth.”

“But- I mean, I don’t really-”

“Q!” R bit out, voice edging on a hidden whine (not that R would ever _whine;_ that would simply be _unprofessional)_. “Come _on!_ Don’t make me lower to begging…”

“I think it’s a little too late for that, to be quite honest.”

R huffed in irritation, glaring at him with brown eyes like chocolate leather. “I have simply asked you for your assistance with something that, as Quartermaster, you have a duty to help with! You are the Quartermaster! My boss! That means that it is your _duty_ to keep me safe from all harm, and shelter me from those who would like to hurt me!”

Q wrinkled his nose at his right-hand. “That’s low.”

“No, abandoning me to H-Branch is low, Q! Where do your loyalties lie, Sir?” She demanded. “Tell me, where?”

The Quartermaster sulked, nursing his cup of tea. “I hate you so much right now, R- using _guilt_ as a _weapon_ … I don’t _want_ to go down to H-Branch. Okay?”

“And you think that I do?”

“Well- I mean, _no,_ but I’m _Quartermaster._ I have _things_ I need to be making, and _stuff_ I need to be researching, and…” He trailed off at the look R was giving him. “...and…”

“Quartermaster.” R said.

And Q _sighed._

Turning back to his computer, he saved his report and shut off the monitor, powered down his personal printer, and logged out of his not really public CCTV footage.

“You win this round, you demon,” Q said. “But I’m getting more tea before we leave, damn it.”

R smiled.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Logan, 008 is stuck in traffic, see what you can do for him. Merriwhether, stop fucking around, I don’t fucking care if your comms are cold, 0012 could need you at any god damn minute, get back to fucking work. And CARLTON! PUT THAT GUN DOWN THIS INSTANCE, THAT’S NOT YOUR FUCKING PROPERTY, DAMN IT!”

H shook his head. “I’m surrounding by fucking idiots.”

“That’s probably why you fit in so well, then.” 

H whipped his head around at the deadpan words, eyes falling on two figures standing just inside his door. “Well fucking hell, if it isn’t Q and R!”

He jerked his headset off, letting it fall haphazardly to his desk, and strode over to the two techies, not seeming to notice their identical winces at his actions. “Still a little shit then, eh Quartermaster?”

He clapped them on the back, making them stumble forward from the force of his greeting.

“It takes balls to show up here again!” He chuckled, and it wasn’t really an altogether nice chuckle. “What brings boffins like you down to the likes of the Hovel, eh?”

“Though I still don’t quite understand why you insist, on referring to H-Branch as ‘the Hovel’, I suppose that I admire your commitment to doing so,” the Quartermaster commented instead of answering, eyes darting restlessly from one monitor to the other, drinking in the sight of seamless coordination in the midst of chaos. 

(R jabbed her elbow into Q’s side subtly, making him hiss out a sharp breath.)

“We’re here to speak with Renning on a matter pertaining to 005’s mission last Sunday,” R told the head Handler, ignoring the way Q quietly glared at her. “It’s rather urgent, if you mind.”

“Only Q-Branch would consider asking around a fucking week later _urgent,”_ H snorted, stalking back to his desk and flicking on the overhead microphone.

“Renning!” He barked into his handheld device, his voice echoing from the walls harshly. “Get yer arse over here, Q-Branch has business with yah!”

The entire room _“Oooh”_ -ed as a young man stood from the other side of the room and made his way over.

As he got closer, Q and R could set that he was glaring angrily at his coworkers, doing his best to ignore their pointed whispers as he passed. “Shut the fuck up,” They heard him whisper furiously to a particularly wide-grinning colleague. 

“I really hate when they do that,” R said, nonplussed, and Q couldn’t help but agree. Always an ordeal it was, coming down to H-Branch…

Renning had finally made it to them.

"You're relieved from your duties until you get back," H barked at the young man, sounding much like the former drill sergeant he was. "Q and R need you for who-the-fuck-knows how long, so Dandriss will take over your shit for you."

"Dandriss-!" Renning began unthinkingly in indignation, but abruptly cut himself off at the towering look on his physically imposing boss's face.

6"3' and covered in rough muscles, H wasn't a man that many had the guts to stand up to, and serving three long years under the head Handler's reign had long since taught Renning to watch his words very very carefully.

"Of course sir," Renning tried again, biting his lip. "I’ll hurry back."

"Damn straight you will," H nodded approvingly. "Now get your damn arses out of my sight- especially _you_ two. Your technoshit presence is fucking with the environment just by breathing.” 

He turned back to his screens without another word, and nobody had problems identifying the dismissal for what it was. They were only thankful that no punches had been thrown.

“Right,” R nodded, grabbed the Quartermaster by his upper arm, and unceremoniously dragged him out of the room, leaving Renning to follow at their heels like a sullen puppy.

H-Branch. The only place with people insane enough to keep up with the double-ohs. Got to love ‘em...

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

After Q had retrieved his mug from where he had stashed it and R had grabbed a spare clipboard from the nearest work closet, they all finally settled themselves in an empty conference room and got down to business.

“So what is this about, anyway?” Renning asked, eying the two techs warily. “I haven't done anything wrong, have I?”

“No no,” R waved away his concerns impatiently. “Not in the least. Look, Q-Branch just needs some specific information on 005's Africa mission, is all- and seeing as how he is currently sulking in Zimbabwe somewhere, you were obviously the next best source.”

Q snorted, stirring his cup of tea deftly with the practiced air of a soulless caffeine addict. (Which, of course, he was.) All the double-ohs seemed capable of doing was sulking. Killing and destroying and bloody _sulking._

When he’d first started working at MI6 as a lowly tech desk hand, he hadn’t quite understood the actions of the double-ohs. Every other sentence, his bosses were complaining about how ‘004 had fed all of her specially made knives to a jellyfish’ and ‘001 blew up his tracers again, damn it!’ How could so much technical devastation be wrought by such a limited group of people? It wasn’t like the double-ohs were a large faction- they were, after all, the best of the best; not just anyone could take on the handle… And since they were top dogs, surely it shouldn’t be so hard for them to conduct themselves like responsible adults? It wasn’t _that_ hard to keep track of something as simple as a _comm link_ , was it?

Typing away at his disgustingly walk-over computer, Q (then Quillian) had listened with half an ear to the complaints of his supervisors, drinking in their aggravation and discomfit at the uncaring attitudes the double-ohs had for their gear.

The worst of the lot was Agent James Bond-(007), it seemed, and Q was simultaneously amused and wary to note that this conclusion was unanimous among his supervisors. Q had heard stories about Bond- hell, everyone had heard stories about the troubled double-oh agent. M’s favourite, he was insubordinate, disobedient, and rather too free for someone under the fierce bonds of the government. _Wild,_ his bosses had hissed under their breath, pounding away at their keyboards. _Reckless._

For all the tales he’d heard about the man, Q wondered why he was so _good_ at what he did. Because he was good, oh yes- for all his profligate actions, nobody did the job as easily, as finally, as _well_ as James Bond. Maybe it was not in spite of, but _because_ of his madcap shenanigans, Q had considered, absentmindedly filling in some needless statements.

Q was no fool. Growing up with the family that he did, nothing short of sheer brilliance was even an option. In the Holmes family, you did not _fail._ Failure was not acceptable, so none of them _did_ it. All five of them, Q and had his mad, talented siblings, had worked hard and ferociously and brutally so that they would never be anything but the best for their mother. They didn’t conduct themselves as the average person would, because they had responsibilities, and there were others in the world to fall for mediocrity- why should they, when they could all be so much greater?

Their mother pushed them, and shoved them, and held them above the water not so they wouldn’t drown, but so that they could rise above the surface and look down on all that were sinking. _You are better. You are **better.**_

Q supposed that it was a bit like that for Bond- M was the Mummy of MI6, it would seem, and if you wanted to be anything to Mummy, you had to be nothing but the best. Conventionality was for the weak who were too afraid to take the leaps to the top- too afraid to do what was necessary to _stay_ at the top.

Q wasn’t even sure that Bond consciously knew what he was doing; pushing for the affection that M fed to him through her insane missions and ludicrous expectations- he’d wager that M was dubiously aware, because you didn’t get to sit on the throne without knowing the hearts of your knights. (At least, the good ones didn’t. And M, for all her faults, was one of the good ones.)

So, Q supposed, Bond did what he did because it worked, and if some replaceable (sometimes _not_ so replaceable) equipment was destroyed in the process of his achievements, who was going to seriously berate him? He had the backing of _M_ afterall.

But then Silva had happened, the old M had _died,_ and the new M had taken her place.

Quillian had been R before he had been Q, but he’d never expected the culmination of his career to happen so bloody _quickly._ Boothroyd, the former Quartermaster, may have been _old,_ but he was also sturdy and resilient, and Quillian never thought that Boothroyd would die at such a pinnacle time, and Quillian would be left to pick up the pieces of the broken department.

Quillian took over, set up shop in the new bunker, met the resurrected James Bond, and helped take down the man responsible for one of the worst attacks on MI6 in recorded history. And then… things just went back to normal. 

Well, close _enough_ to normal, at least.

Yes, Q had to prove himself to his suspicious staff through a strange series of trials and tribulations that he really didn’t like to talk about, and yes, the new M was younger, male, and was a tad more sensible than the old M had been, but there was no genocide, robotic aliens hadn’t attacked, and not a single one of the double-ohs had deserted- something which nobody had been _seriously_ afraid of, but the positivity was needed, and everybody celebrated anyway. 

James Bond threw himself back into the field with a vigor that Q seldom saw in anybody these days, and made himself a general nuisance in all the branches of MI6- most especially Q and H. Now the head tech, designing and outfitting the double-ohs for their missions, Q had a new, up close and personal understanding of just why his old superiors used to practically drown themselves in misery whenever a double-oh was sent out. The chances of any equipment being returned were slim to none- _especially_ if your name was James Bond.

Working with Bond the first time had been hazardous enough- there was that train, and those explosions, and that bloody _hacking,_ and _God,_ Q had risked his _career_ for him- but Q had thought that he’d done a good job at remaining calm and guiding Bond as needed.

Bond thought so too, apparently. Or at least, that’s what Eve Moneypenny confided in him when he’d complained to her about the double-oh agent who had taken to haunting Q-Branch in his free time.

“He likes you, I think,” Moneypenny had told him, a strangely wicked gleam in her eyes. “It’s why he’s hovering so much- most of the people in his ear are idiots, so says him, and a competent voice is always a blessing. Not many can keep up with James Bond, you know. You’ve intrigued him.”

“I still don’t really understand,” Q had replied, trying his best not to sound as flustered as he was feeling. “All he ever does is _tease_ and _watch,_ and he makes my Minions nervous-”

“I don’t pretend to understand James Bond,” Moneypenny had said at that. “And anyone who does so is a fool. You’d best just get used to him, Quartermaster- I’m sure he’ll leave you alone soon enough. He just needs to satisfy his curiosity, that’s all.”

“Right.” Q said with a resolute nod. “Okay. Right.”

And that had been that. (For a former _H-Brancher_ , Moneypenny was surprisingly alright.)

Bond slunk around in the shadows, Q and his Minions did their best to ignore him, and the days passed with not too much havoc- something which Q found himself missing, if he was being rather honest with himself.

After all of the years he’d spent as a Holmes, a new life under a new name, devoid of the usual mayhem wasn’t really something that he found all too pleasing.

Oh, sure, he was out from under the thumb of his meddling brothers (Quillian had managed to bargain with Mycroft to cease his tampering), and though he still occasionally sought out his sister for information, she was no longer a fount of sleazy wreckage with no qualms about roping him and his computer skills into the middle of a mogul war. (She was still a fount of sleazy wreckage, no doubt, but Quillian was presently out of her reach, and she could manage on her own now.)

 _Still,_ Q considered, watching as R, his wonderful right-hand, practically interrogated Renning from H-Branch. _I wouldn’t give this up for the world._


	3. A Bar and Frustrated Discussions

R was his savior, to be completely honest.

The Indian woman had quickly caught his eye in the beginning months of his reign as MI6 Quartermaster. It had taken his Minions a while to warm up to him- his age playing a very large part in their hesitancy towards accepting him. At 27 he was the youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history, and things like that couldn’t really be forgotten. Though he had certainly proved himself in his interim as R, most of the tech-squad in Q-Branch still had reserves about him taking over as Head of the Branch- after all, there was a very large difference between the two positions, and nobody had expected his take-over to happen so early in his career. 

There was reluctance to do his bidding, and there were questions about his decisions. (“Are you _sure_ that’s the best material to use? I mean, the silicone would work _much_ better than the polybenzimidazole mesh…” and “Don’t you think the barrel should be smooth, not ridged? Have you taken into consideration how the trajectory of the bullet will be affected?…”) R was one of the few techies who responded to his requests without hesitation, and even seemed to value his advice.

She did what she was told, with only a quick, sarcastic word, and she did what she was told rather _brilliantly_. Her programs were simply stellar, and he would never admit to _how much_ he admired her WPM speed- it was on par with his _own,_ and that was a _feat._

In the end, all of his Minions had grown to respect him and take his word as gospel, but Q would never forget those few months where he had not been viewed as proper Overlord. Q would never forget the short little Indian woman with the quick wit and hardcore coding who looked at him with eyes filled only with bored acceptance.

So when M had inquired about whether he had thought at all about who he would like to instate as the next R, he did not even have to take time to consider. Ten minutes later, Ankita Bhalla was wiped, and it was as if no such woman had existed in any capacity. There was now only R, the cutting, efficient Q-Branch right-hand woman, who cowed the Minions when necessary, and geeked out with Q whenever the opportunity arose. 

Q never let on just how much he appreciated her unwavering support, and if anybody were to ask about his feelings on the matter, he would only sniff and say she had great input for the exploding yoyos. But nonetheless, the Quartermaster knew that without R’s loyalty, his first seven months in the bunker would have been something to turn to alcoholism for. 

This was really the only reason why he had reluctantly agreed to accompany his right-hand to the crowded bar that Friday night- he owed her this turn of alcohol consumption, for the way she had warded off the more dangerous bout of it in his life.

Still, Q considered, taking a slow sip from his cup of whiskey. There were about two dozen other things he would rather have been doing at that moment.

“What about him?” He asked instead of voicing his thoughts, gesturing subtly to a seated figure. “He looks, er... rather pleasant.”

R followed his eyes to the well-dressed man across the room, and frowned, watching as he laughed loudly at his friend, who knocked back a glass of drink and slammed the empty cup back onto the tabletop. 

“His friend looks to be a burgeoning alcoholic,” R said, wrinkling her nose in disdain as the friend in question downed another glass. “That’s the third glass he’s consumed in what appears to be the last 10 minutes.”

“Eight,” Q corrected easily. “Eight minutes. But forget about the friend for a moment, _Reva_. What do you think about _him?”_

“Well, _Quinn,_ ” R returned with a haughty sniff. “I think that you’re trying to set me up with a man who surrounds himself with addiction fuelled simpletons. One’s an alcoholic, that one there is clearly hooked on some sort of amphetamine, and the one to his left can’t stop twitching and it’s extremely off putting. I simply will not stand for it.”

“The twitcher’s resisting a cigarette,” Q sighed, propping his head up on the palm of his left hand, swirling his glass with his right. “He’s clearly nicotine shot- you can tell by the way he’s practically grinding his gum.” He squinted at his assistant. “And really Reva, you have the highest of standards. That’s the fifth suggested man you’ve turned down in the last half hour. You’re looking for a one-nighter, not a man to take home to your _parents.”_

“You just tried to set me up with a man who’s good friends appear to be a bunch of substance abusers,” She snapped. “I think I’m warranted in my hesitancy here, alright?” 

Q pursed his lips, not letting it go. “The last guy I suggested owned three cats. Why would you turn down a night with a man like that?”

R looked at him with an expression of pure disbelief. “That’s exactly why I _wasn’t_ going to go home with him, Quinn! You’ve got to know that any single man who owns three cats can’t possibly be the kind of man you want to get involved with. They’re either a.) serial killers, or b.) _soon to be_ serial killers.”

“Or lonely men with no one to keep them company!” Q protested. “I think it’s a very smart way to keep yourself from falling into the mindless drone of solitude!”

Really, what was so wrong with _cats?_

“You really have no understanding of people, do you?” R stated more than asked, shaking her head in something close to pity. “And possibly _the_ worst taste in men, ever. I mean, you’ve got an honest to God, schoolgirl _crush_ on _James Bond_ of all people, and if that’s not-”

The Indian woman was cut off abruptly as Q violently choked on his drink.

“Jesus Christ, Q!” R blurted, alarmed, and pounded the younger man on the back. “Take it easy! I can’t have you asphyxiating on me just yet!”

“You-You-” Q managed, flailing pathetically at R as he tried to both regain his dignity and escape from her heavy hand. “Stop- _stop!”_

“Take another sip of whiskey- no _trust_ me on this Q, I know you just _choked_ on it, but it’ll really help you, okay?”

Unable to form a proper argument at that point, much less any actual words, Q acquiesced and let his assistant guide his glass to his lips.

“You’re a delusional heathen,” He blurted as soon as she took the cup from him, voice scratchy. “You’re mad and you have no true grasp on reality. Your rationality is impaired and you’re probably going to be eaten by wild animals one day because of that.”

R jolted a look at him, surprised and askance. “This is the thanks I get for saving your life? I knew I should have just let you go!”

“You’re the one who almost killed me in the first place!” He snapped at her, flustered, red rising to his face. Because no. No way in _hell_ did he have a- a _schoolgirl crush_ on _James Bond_ of all people. “You can’t just spring such vicious lies on someone and expect them to take it like a spoonful of sugar, alright?”

“Vicious lies?” R repeated incredulously. “What are you talking about? All I- no, wait, you can’t be _serious_.” Something seemed to dawn on her at that moment, and she stared at her boss with what he deemed a vastly inappropriate amount of horror. “Don’t tell me you’re in _denial!”_

“I am not in love with Bond,” He snarled. “I don’t even _like_ him, for God’s sake.”

R looked at him, lips twitching down slowly. “I said that you had a _crush_ on him, Quinn. That doesn’t necessarily correlate to _love,_ alright? Unless you have something to _confess...”_

She frowned and muttered almost to herself, “Although, to be honest, I don’t even know if you’re capable of love.”

Q sniffed and ignored that blatant sting. Because of _course_ he was capable of _love_. He wasn’t like Mycroft, or _God forbid_ , his _sister._

“Shut up Reva, I don’t care. Either way, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You think he’s pretty.”

“No I don’t.”

“You admire his skills.”

“His skills are _worthless_. He brings no tech back at all!”

“And yet if anyone else destroyed his equipment like Bond does, you would have them keelhauled in the farthest reaches of the bunker.”

Q sunk his teeth into his bottom lip angrily to keep himself from blurting anything he shouldn’t.

“I do not like Bond.” He finally said levelly, after he had regained himself enough to not fly into a humiliated tizzy when he met R’s glittering gaze. “In fact, I might go as far as to say that I _dislike_ him. He lost my prototype poison cup last week. That is inexcusable; I was working on that for nearly a month.”

“And yet you don’t hate him,” R responded, cold triumph clearly present as she jabbed an accusatory finger at her boss. “You simply ‘dislike’ him. If 0010 had lost that cup, he’d be dead right now.”

“0010 is a presumptuous Luddite with no redeemable qualities whatsoever. At least Bond can talk to me like I’m not four.”

“0010 is a dick,” R agreed. “But that’s besides the point, at the moment. You honestly just need to accept this right now, because this is hardly the place for this conversation, and I think the refusal of your feelings is getting a little out of hand.”

Jolted, Q’s face grew even redder and he threw a mortified look around the pub. He had nearly forgotten that they were debating his nonexistent love life in a _bar. Jesus._

_I seriously hope nobody heard us,_ He thought miserably. _It would be **just** my luck to get my security clearance snatched because of James bloody **Bond.**_

“I’m leaving.” He stood abruptly and threw a handful of pounds onto the tabletop to pay for their whiskey. “You can stay if you want, but _I’m leaving.”_

“What?” R protested. “Oh, come on- Quinn! You can’t _leave!_ It’s only nine!”

“Yes, and we have _work_ tomorrow, Reva,” He snapped, tugging on his coat. “I, for one, am looking forward to the novel concept of _sleep.”_

“Quinn! Wait!” His assistant stood and hurried after him without hesitation. “Come on, wait for me!”

She caught up with the younger man as he was striding away from the building, and fell in step with him, a huff escaping her lips.

There was a moment of silence but for the tapping of their feet and the sounds of the nightlife around them, before R spoke.

“You really didn’t know?” She asked quietly, sounding oddly perturbed.

Q grimaced. “There’s nothing to know.”

R shook her head with a wince. “I- I’m sorry Q- I really thought that you were- I mean- just…” She blinked imploringly. “Tell me you’ve at least had a spot of fancy for _someone_ before…?”

“Emotions are caused by a series of chemicals reactions in the brain, R,” Q told her, frustration forming his words like condensed steam. “They are _synapses firing_ , and _electrical impulses_. Love doesn’t exist. Sentiment is for the weak. I simply don’t have _time_ for things like _fancying_ people.”

Q ignored the startled look that formed on R’s face at his words.

“Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to look out for me, but I promise you, you’re _wrong_ about this, okay? Can you- can you just drop this?”

There was a moment’s pause before R let out a long, winding sigh.

“Fine, Q,” She told him, sounding frustrated. “I’ll drop it.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate-”

“For now, that is,” R interrupted, and Q broke off with rapid blinking.

“For now.” He repeated slowly, not seeming to understand what he was being told.

“Yes, Q, for now. Because I don’t think that I can stand to watch you dance around your feelings anymore- I used to think that you were just ignoring them, and that really was alright- but now that I know that you are in _denial_ …” She shook her head. “I don’t actually think that I’ll be able to stand it.”

Q stopped walking and turned to face his right-hand, pulling her to a halt as well, a mixture of frustration, disbelief, and definite embarrassment clear on his face.

The sidewalks were bare of people at that time of night, and the streetlights lent the Indian woman a clear look at the emotions running through his eyes. The Quartermaster ran a hand through his curly hair with a hiss of negative breath.

“Look… R…. Just what exactly are you trying to do? Say you get me to admit to having a crush on Bond… So what? It’s not like anything would happen- Bond likes to irritate me and make me uncomfortable, and that is _it._ And even if he did like me as I supposedly like him, nothing would even come of _that_. He would never spend a day with someone like me, and if he did, that is all it would be- a day spent together- probably a night if we’re all being _perfectly honest_ here.”

Q’s lips twisted into a weak mockery of a smile.

“And in _any_ case, interoffice relationships are prohibited. Seriously, _nothing_ would even have a _chance_ of happening… So tell me, R,” He repeated. “What are you trying to do?”

R stared at him for his well formulated response. “I... thought you said you weren’t invested?”

“I’m _not!”_ He said sharply. “I’m _asking,_ okay? I don’t have to be invested to see all of the flaws in your reasoning. Even a blind man could see that it would never work out.”

R didn’t say anything, and Q was just starting to hope that he’d got through to her when-

“M’s got a weird liking for Tanner.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ It was Q’s turn to stare. “M’s got a _what?”_

“I can’t believe you haven’t noticed, to be honest,” R continued, frowning at him thoughtfully. “I mean, even Dahlia has, and she’s almost as emotionally stunted as you apparently are.” She sighed at his blank look. “You know, Dahlia Deckrow? The one with the most ingenious ideas for the knock-out candles? Blonde hair, blue eyes, and the weirdest World of Warcraft raiding style?”

“I- no, shutup, I _know_ who Dahlia is,” He snapped at her, face growing pink for the most unacceptable time that night. “That’s not what I’m- just- are you saying that M has a _thing_ for Tanner?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Q” His right-hand responded levelly, brows edging up her face. “And as far as I can tell, he’s actually trying to pursue him- it’s not going so well, obviously, but that’s because Tanner is a stubborn bastard who does things by the book.”

R sighed and wrinkled her brow. “Look, the point I’m trying to make here is that I don’t think that you’d really have any problem with the whole ‘interoffice relationship’ thing, and M would probably get behind the idea of you and Bond because that would mean that someone would be able to control Bond, you know?”

“There are- there are so many things to address in that,” Q shook his head. “But first and foremost, nobody can _control_ Bond, and nobody ever will. Mallory is much too hopeful for his own good.” He took a deep breath. “Secondly, I don’t _want_ a relationship with Bond. What I’d _like_ is for him to stop scaring our workers- he makes them very distressed.”

“So you say…” R let out a long, slow breath. “I’m not going to be able to get through to you, am I?”

“Not in the way you seem to want, no.”

“Fine,” R scowled (not pouted- she was above pouting, damn it!). “If that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“I’m afraid so, yes,” Q told her, not seeming able to muster up the proper amount of apologetic curve to his tone. “Terribly sorry.”

“Fine.” R repeated, squinting a disappointed look at her boss. “Just promise me you’ll at least _think_ about it tonight, alright?”

“Alright R,” Q sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

And that had been the end of the conversation. They parted ways at the corner with acknowledged nods, and bid each other farewell.

-

It was only when the Quartermaster collapsed into the bed back at his flat, after hacking and removing all potentially incriminating evidence of his and R’s night out, that the full implications of R’s words hit him like the blow of a cannonball. 

“She thinks I have the hots for Bond,” He said dumbly, staring up at his ceiling in incomprehension. “She thinks I- she thinks _Bond.”_

The small spindly crack in his ceiling stared back, looking very underwhelmed by the crisis that had been struck in his life.

“Why would she-? I’ve never given her any reason-?”

He clenched his jaw and stared up at the crack in disbelief.

“She thinks I _like Bond,_ ” He repeated to himself in something that was sliding uncomfortably close to panic. “Good _God.”_

He flipped onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow with a self pitying moan, glasses digging awkwardly into his skin. 

Despite the disagreeable feeling of his glasses pressing into his face, he somehow found himself lulling into a quiet state of catatonia, drifting just above the surface of the sleeping world, mind numbly trailing along the train of _BondRhissiblingsdisownedaffectionsickening…_

If there was anybody unhappy with the situation, it was Q. He wasn’t going to admit to anything, but he knew that even if he did, nothing good would ever come from it. R had put a lot of thoughts into his mind, and despite his best intentions, he _did_ end up thinking about them. 

Because oh _dear no,_ he couldn’t _really_ have a crush on Bond, right? R was just spewing the most controversial things just to mess with him- something that she definitely liked to do. It simply wasn’t possible for people like _him_ to feel things like _that._ It wasn’t _sensible_ to feel things like _sentiment._ God knows that he had spent the majority of his life trying to cut away all of his past emotional attachments. In the Holmes family, it was best to do away with things like that early on- Mycroft had managed it well enough, and Fausteria had probably done the best job of _all_ of them.

His sister wasn’t so much as cold as she was empty. The males of the family were the ones who stifled their emotions- the females were the ones who just didn’t have any.

Fausteria had certainly never had any problems with relationships; she indulged in any sexual urges she wanted, with whomever she wanted, and not once did she let her personal feelings get in the way (probably because she had none, damn her). As an underground information broker, she often needed to employ her sexuality as a ruse to get the material she was after. Her affairs, however, remained incredibly stationary in the _‘just a fuck’_ range, and did not once stray anywhere else. She was incredibly gifted at maintaining a solid distinction between the physical and the emotional side of her dalliances. 

Mycroft? Well, Mycroft didn’t _like_ people, and that was really the end of that… 

Sherrinford… He actually didn’t know much about Sherrinford’s love life, to be quite honest with himself. And if he was sticking with honesty at that point, he didn’t really know much about Sherrinford’s life these days, period. Sure, Q tried his best to keep caught up in his eldest brother’s going-ons, but it was a feat easier said than done- -it probably had something to do with the older male being basically a criminal for hire, wanted in 17 countries. He was on dubiously friendly terms with England, of course, what with the family contract he’d signed the Christmas before he’d skipped town, but still. Hopping from continent to continent to kill someone-or-other really didn’t make staying in contact the easiest thing in the world.

This left only Sherlock, and Q readily admitted that he absolutely did not understand his youngest sibling. 

Sherlock was fire. Burning, raging, consuming fire. His emotions were scorched away by the strength that he felt, like how Mycroft’s were frozen by the ice in his veins. Not many saw it for what it was- or no, that wasn’t it… That is, most saw, but they didn’t _observe._ People were afraid of Sherlock because he burned them with his raging impersonality. Q had always thought that it would take someone close to a dragon-handler to keep up with his brother. 

But Q had seen John Watson, and though he didn’t look at all like a dragon-handler, he seemed to keep up with Sherlock just fine- something he knew their other three siblings were all in disbelief of as well. However, Q knew not to judge by appearances, and he’s done enough research on Captain Watson (not to mention covert surveillance) to affirm that he had hidden depths that Sherlock had clearly tuned in to. 

To say whether Sherlock and the good doctor were in any sort of relationship that was anything but platonic was unknown, but Q had a horrifyingly sneaky suspicion that his brother might have feelings for his friend that verged on decidedly not brotherly. It was incredibly queer to think about, no pun intended, and made the Quartermaster shudder in fear and dread.

Sherlock was the chief picketer against sentiment. He often loudly and vigorously blasphemed against the “chemical defect”, and if he was supposedly showing interest in someone, then Q was fairly certain that the apocalypse was indubitably nigh. 

And as Q was decidedly against the end of the world, then he hoped for everyone’s sake, and especially John’s, that Sherlock’s interest was nothing other than friendly. Because yes, Watson may have hidden depths, but that didn’t mean that they were deep enough to keep Sherlock from running aground.

If only on the behalf of Christmas dinners, Q hoped that Sherlock was given no reason to turn back to drug use. Always awkward, that.

In any case, though, Q consoled himself with the fact that even if he himself _did_ have some sort of weird, convoluted crush on Bond, it couldn’t be _nearly_ as bad as Sherlock and John’s odd relationship.

And with those strangely comforting thoughts, Q allowed himself to slip into a deep, untroubled sleep, for the first time in a long long while.


End file.
